


The Girl in the Crimson Cloak

by applejackcat



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 17:54:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5137175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applejackcat/pseuds/applejackcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumpelstiltskin and Belle borrow from another fairy tale while on the way to making their own. Set in an Enchanted Forest AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Girl in the Crimson Cloak

Rumplestiltskin found it impossible to resist two things: the summoning cry of a desperate soul and a perfectly made chocolate pecan pie. Three long centuries taught him that the kingdoms of the Enchanted Forest were lousy with the former. The latter, on the other hand, came along once in a lifetime.

So, one glimmering spring afternoon, after concluding a deal with a fellow sorcerer, when the mouth-watering scent of one such pie wafted past him on a light breeze, Rumplestiltskin vowed he would not rest until he devoured every last crumb of the delicious morsel. He eyed his companion mistrustfully, but the old hag waved him onwards.

“Not exactly to my tastes, if you know what I mean,” she cackled, winking at him for good measure.

Rumplestiltskin wanted to taste the pie so badly that even her casual reference to cannibalism could not dampen his growing hunger. After bidding the hag a polite adieu, he stalked into the forest, a beast in search of its delectable chocolate prey.

* * *

 

Locating the pastry took seconds. Coming to terms with the striking beauty of its possessor took considerably longer.

On principle, Rumplestiltskin despised most everything about himself. But as familiar a companion as his self-loathing was, he could not deny that he possessed a mind crackling with superior intelligence. And yet this slip of a woman -- it did not escape Rumplestiltskin’s attention that her head would tuck perfectly into the crook of his neck -- with her impossibly blue eyes and her vibrant loveliness, left him empty-headed and awestruck. She wore a cloak of scarlet velvet, and a wicker basket dangled from her arm.

No doubt a dutiful granddaughter, on her way to feed her bed-bound granny. Rumplestiltskin’s heart, the shriveled traitor, seized painfully as it sprang back to life. Oh, to discover a perfect chocolate pecan pie and this young woman over the course of the same afternoon! The memory of her magnificence would last long after he had consumed the last piece of the pastry. For while Rumplestiltskin intended to steal her pie with skillful aplomb, he would sooner attend a potluck with the old hag than speak to the red-cloaked young woman. Monsters such as him belonged in the shadows.

The young woman paused in a clearing, and Rumplestiltskin drew closer to her with silent, powerful strides. The heady scent of the pie combined with her luminosity so enraptured him that, when the gigantic wolf burst through the trees, all slavering jaws and jagged-sharp teeth, Rumplestiltskin quite forgot himself. He bellowed heartily, which seemed to startle the young woman much more than the wolf did. She dropped the basket and screamed at the sight of him, falling backwards over a felled tree in her attempt to escape him.

Rumplestiltskin knew his reputation as the Dark One far proceeded him. And gods knew he went through great pains to maintain a reputation that inspired equal parts terror and disgust in the people with whom he dealt. Nonetheless, the young woman’s horror at his appearance stung, given that a gigantic murderous wolf had come crashing onto the scene moments before him.

The young woman righted herself, and Rumplestiltskin cursed his wounded pride, for no sooner had she dragged herself to her feet than the wolf descended upon her. The cur’s stinking mouth devoured her in one gulp, and when the young woman screamed shrilly with her dying breath, Rumplestiltskin thought his heart broke over the loss.

But the afternoon had not finished bestowing surprises upon him. For when the giant wolf turned his attention upon the discarded basket, Rumplestiltskin saw the it had not eaten the young woman. Rather, it had licked her thoroughly, leaving her glossy curls clumped together with drool and her face sticky with wolf spit and hunks of fur. The young woman glared at the wolf, arms crossed over her chest. To Rumplestiltskin’s distress, the wolf tore into the basket and consumed the chocolate pecan pie with lightening-quick efficiency.

“Papa!” cried the young woman, struggling to be heard over the wolf’s vulgar lip smacking. “You have ruined this cloak. I suppose we can add its cost to our mounting debt we’ve accrued with our neighbors.”

Rumplestiltskin possessed little experience interpreting the expression of wolves, but from its downcast eyes and drooping ears, he would hazard that this one felt ashamed. The young woman continued her sullen litany.

“We will have to sell Mrs. Potts and Chip to cover the costs of the damage you caused when you tore through town. If the pair of them do not fetch enough at market, then we may have to part with Philippe as well.” Her face crumpled momentarily, and Rumplestiltskin realized the young woman, for all of her beauty, could not be any older than eighteen. Even in her mussed, smelly state, she commanded a considerable amount of authority over the giant wolf.

Rumplestiltskin could imagine the responsibilities it took to shape such a young soul into the woman of strength and will that stood before him.

“And you.” The young woman turned her attention upon him, and Rumplestiltskin drew himself upwards, preparing to offer her a flourishing introduction and his best, most trilling snicker. But even though she must have known his identity, the young woman spoke to him with the same practical authority as she’d spoken with to the wolf. “Please, none of that, now. I have had a remarkably bad day and have no wish to make deals with the Dark One.”

He could not help himself. Although he knew it would irk her -- and, perhaps, because he wanted to see color blossom in her cheeks as he raised her ire -- Rumplestiltskin curtsied to her. “The Dark One seems far to formal, dearie,” he told her. “Rumplestiltskin is my name. I implore you to use it.” His gleeful, glittering persona felt somehow wrong when he donned it for her, far to tight to be comfortable. But he needed desperately to claim the upper-hand, to withdraw from this wretchedly confusing situation.

The giant wolf moaned and twitched, but as it seemed mostly tame now, Rumplestiltskin ignored it. When the young woman continued to stare at him, her chin jutting defiantly outwards, obviously intent on bending the silence stretching between them to her will, his heart began to beat wildly inside his chest. Did she  _have_  to be as brave as she was beautiful?

The same curse that bound him to a dagger and the pleas of the hopeless urged him to run from this woman, to disappear from the clearing in cloud of purple smoke. Rumplestiltskin sensed that if he staid one moment more in the clearing with her, something within him would be permanently wrecked. And yet, although he originally intended to avoid direct contact with the young woman, he could not imagine leaving the forest without knowing her name.

Names held a special sort of magic. If the jut of this woman’s jaw could make him ignore the curse’s bidding, Rumplestiltskin’s skin prickled to imagine the power her name contained.

“And what shall I call you?” he asked, his voice high and gleeful.

Still, the young woman remained silent. Beside her, the wolf circled anxiously, its ears slicked back across its great skull.

“Tiny Crimson Cloak, is it?” Rumplestiltskin trilled, eyeing the ruined bolt of fabric. Well, he could fix that. With a snap of his fingers, he returned the cloak to a state of gleaming glory.

The young woman gasped. “Magic!” For a moment, her features contorted into such a look of awe that Rumplestiltskin felt certain his heart would burst from his chest. With the swiftness of one who endures an inordinate amount of shenanigans, however, her brows drew together; she turned suspicious. “We struck no deal, Rumplestiltskin, and so I owe you no favors.”

Oh, gods, she used his given name -- one of the few mortals who would choose to do so, when given the chance between that and his other, more infamous moniker. Rumplestiltskin struggled to know what he should do with his hands, and to his embarrassment, he fluttered them about foolishly. The young woman took this well, however, and gradually, a smile spread across her face. She giggled, a noise so much more melodious than his own.

“No deal, no payment,” Rumplestiltskin agreed. “I am a fair and honest businessman, dearie. No one would come to me if I cheated them.”

The young woman smirked at him. “And yet, I have never heard one of your customers say a kind word about you.”

Rumplestiltskin drew back, mouth agape, his countenance one of mock outrage. His expression caused the young woman to laugh some more. “You wound me, dearie. Where do you live, that you meet so many of my former customers?”

With a loud crack and a grunt, the giant wolf transformed into a man. Whatever spell bound him in a lupine form broke so cleanly that Rumplestiltskin’s well-trained eyes did not catch the metamorphosis in action. The man, naked and covered in bruises and scratches, straightened. “We come from Avonlea,” he told Rumplestiltskin weakly. “I am Maurice, the town’s blacksmith, and this is my daughter Belle.”

 _A name that well suits this Beauty,_ Rumplestiltskin thought.

Belle squealed. “Papa, no! You know better than to just give him our names.”

Maurice shuffled bashfully, trying his best to cover his privates, and Belle’s cheeks flushed as red as the cloak she quickly extended to him. Maurice pulled it around himself, offering his daughter an apologetic smile. “That’s right, dear. I don’t know where my mind went. But I don’t think Rumplestiltskin means us harm.”

Belle snorted. “Then he’s the only one, Papa!”

Maurice winced. “How bad is the damage?” he asked sheepishly.

“If we drive a hard bargain, selling Mrs. Potts and Chip will cover the cost.” Belle wrinkled her noise in distaste. “Of course, Gaston made his usual offer-”

Maurice’s face darkened. “Belle, I’ll buy a commission in the Royal Fleet before I let you marry Gaston to pay for one of my blunders.”

Chuckling gently, Belle gave her father a hug. “I think you’re the grandest father in the land, but I think you’re a shade too old for the Royal Fleet’s tastes. We’ll just have to be more careful next time.”

“I’m so close, Belle!” Maurice exclaimed excitedly. The grin that flashed across his face made him look ten years younger. “Just you wait, girl. When I get this potion right, it will revolutionize the way we think of magic and its performance.”

“Eh-hem,” coughed Rumplestiltskin politely. The curse might not care for Belle, but it and its host bridled at being forgotten for so long.

Belle and Maurice startled from the conversation in a manner that led Rumplestiltskin to believe they spent most of their time with one another.

 _No mother, then. What a tragedy!_  simpered the curse.

“I suppose you’ll want an explanation,” Maurice said.

Rumplestiltskin swatted his hands at the man. “Not in the slightest. You obviously came to possess a potion and imbibed it without fully understanding its power. You transformed into a wolf, destroyed a significant amount of property that did not belong to you, and now must sell two of your cows to pay off your debts. Your daughter came by an antidote, baked it into a pie, and came to the forest to find you, no doubt banking on the fact that you would come howling when you caught the pie’s scent.” Belle and Maurice gaped at him. He smirked. “I’m the all-knowing Dark One, dearie. Do you believe this is the first time I’ve seen a wolf turn into a man? Nothing surprises me.”

Belle recovered herself first. “You’re wrong, though,” she said passionately, stepping towards him. “My papa brewed the potion himself.”

Rumplestiltskin hissed. “Lies,” he pronounced confidently.

“My Belle doesn’t lie,” replied Maurice. He summoned as much dignity as a naked man in a red cloak could summon. “I’m an inventor as well as a blacksmith. I tinker in my spare time.”

When I get this potion right, it will revolutionize the way we think of magic and how to perform it.

Rumplestiltskin recoiled from the realization that a simple blacksmith from a backwoods village such as Avonlea could, with a wee bit of tinkering, produce a potion that changed him into a giant wolf. What had begun as a quest for the ever elusive perfect chocolate pecan pie had become a revelation so incredible that his entire being seemed to vibrate with the possibilities of what it meant.

Something seemed to occur to Maurice. “You know all about magic. You should come to our cottage, have supper with us. I can tell you all about my experiments. Belle, my girl, if I remember correctly, we still have enough ingredients for another pie?”

Belle offered Rumpelstiltskin a shy smile. “Yes, Papa. For chocolate pecan or for cherry.”

“Do you like pie?” Maurice asked.

Against his better judgement, Rumplestiltskin replied, “I have always appreciated a finely made chocolate pecan pie.”

The curse struggled to exert its force over him, to make him turn tail and flee these two oddities, a father and daughter who would welcome the Dark One to sup with them at their table. But before you do that, it urged him, make them truly afraid of you, make this foolish peasant so terrified at the merest whiff of magic that he never tinkers again and make sure that when his simpleton daughter thinks of you her blood curdles in fear because fear is power and magic is power and if you cannot instill the first and anyone can use the latter then you have lost lost lost -

“Rumpelstiltskin?” asked Belle, stepping closer to him, close enough that he caught her scent and inhaled it greedily: rose water and a dab of lavender, he thought. “Rumplestiltskin, are you well? You look pale.”

Her voice cut through the insidious hold the curse had upon him with surprising alacrity. One moment, magic churned within him, bringing his temper to a boil, and the next Belle’s presence had righted him.

“No need to worry, dearie,” Rumplestiltskin said, the condescending endearment a feeble attempt at guarding himself from whatever this woman, this creature, was.

“Then you will come to dinner?” Belle asked.

Again, the shy smile glimmered across her face. Rumplestiltskin did not know what to make of the charming way in which she eyed him, and he worried his psyche, already destabilized, might implode if he tried to make sense of her change in disposition to him. But if perfectly made chocolate pecan pies were a once-in-a-lifetime rarity in the Enchanted Forest, then what Belle and Maurice seemed to offer him was even rarer: friendship.

“Aye,” he told her. “I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for Alana (neverjudgeabookbyitsmovie98) after her Rumbelle Christmas in July Santa dropped out. Based off of the prompt Teenaged Belle Meets Rumplestiltskin.


End file.
